The Doctor's Nanny

by Emerson Rose

  “No, my wife is in Nigeria. Her father had a heart attack. She’s taking care of things there before she comes home.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” she says, and I really believe that she is sorry. There are no fake undertones or a rushed attitude. She is one of the rare few genuine doctors left in the world.

  “Well, I think I might have some news that will cheer her up then. Liam, Lourdes, you’re pregnant—six weeks. The blood tests were positive.”

  Even though I knew it already, there is still a sense of shock when she says it out loud. I am pregnant. With Liam’s baby. My baby. This is real. My heart flutters in my chest, and tears fill my eyes while I wonder if these are the normal reactions of a surrogate mother. Am I supposed to be excited? Am I allowed to care? All of the questions from the past two weeks are suddenly popping into my mind one after another in such rapid succession that I can’t verbalize even one of them.

  I look down between the chairs, and Liam’s hand is in mine. When did that happen? Tears begin to race down my cheeks. I can’t hold in the emotions any longer. Surrogate mother or not, I’m pregnant and hormonal, and my shit’s all over the place.

  “Congratulations,” she says, glancing at our joined hands.

  “Thank you,” Liam says while Dr. Clover slides a box of tissue across her desk. He plucks two of them and hands them to me. I blow my nose and dab at my eyes.

  “So when do you expect Mrs. Wild to return?” Dr. Clover asks.

  Seems like an odd question to ask at this moment, but she’s a perceptive woman. I’m sure she can sense that Liam and I are more than just casual business partners meeting to finalize a deal.

  “Her return depends on her father’s health. She’s torn right now. She wants to be here for this, but her dad is still considered critical, so she will be home as soon as he turns a corner, I’m sure.”

  I snivel a few times and watch Dr. Clover assessing Liam. She’s not falling for his explanation, but she’s too good of a person to call us out on what we’re doing—which is nothing, really. She suspects though.

  “So what do we do next? Do I have any restrictions, or do I need to make another appointment?” I ask.

  “Yes, you’ll need another appointment to be sure the pregnancy is progressing as it should be. I’ll have my secretary schedule one for you. I’d like you to pick up some prenatal vitamins and folic acid, and your hemoglobin was a little low last month, so let’s get you on some iron as well. Other than that, you’re fine. From here on out, it should be just like a normal pregnancy.”

  Liam and I sit and continue to stare at Dr. Clover. She makes it all sound so easy and normal, but our situation is anything but. I speak first to break the awkward silence.

  “All right then, we should be going,” I say, standing and thrusting my hand out to shake Dr. Clover’s. She surprises me, though, by walking around the desk and hugging me. She squeezes me tight and pats me on the shoulder before releasing me and doing the same for Liam. He looks at me over her shoulder and raises his eyebrows with question. I shrug my shoulders, and the moment is over.

  Outside in the parking lot, I take deep breaths of the heavy, warm summer air. The office was stuffy and stressful. Being out in the sunshine is exactly what I needed. Liam and I are standing between our cars, leaning against the doors and facing each other. His lips are rolled in against themselves as he regards me with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s thinking again. I press my hands against the warm metal of the car behind me and admire Liam’s casual style. He usually wears jeans, but they aren’t just jeans. His are perfectly cut to accentuate his ass and give a little room in the legs without being saggy. His short-sleeved, V-neck t-shirt is less like a t-shirt and more dress casual. The way it hugs every lean muscle on his chest and abdomen makes me yearn to see what’s underneath it. And as always, he’s got on pure white Adidas tennis shoes without so much as a scuff or a spot of dust on them. I decide to make small talk. There are so many heavy things we should be discussing, but right now I need some chit chat.

  “So what’s with your shoes?” I ask and jut my chin in the direction of his feet.

  He immediately looks down and turns one foot around to look at one side and then the next. Then he repeats the behavior with his other foot.

  “They’re fine. What do you mean?” he asks, looking at me with confusion written all over his face.

  I laugh at his shoe paranoia.

  “I didn’t say what’s wrong with them, just what’s up with the white shoes all the time? And how come they always look like you just took them out of the box?”

  “Because I did,” he says.

  “You wear a brand new pair of shoes every day?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn’t that get expensive?” I ask.

  “Maybe.” He shrugs

  “So that’s it? Yes and Maybe?”

  He drops his arms to his sides and slides his hands into his front pockets.

  “When I was a kid, my mom was broke, and I always wore used kicks from second-hand stores. They hurt my feet and I got teased, so I vowed that when I made it, I would wear a new pair of shoes every day forever. Now it’s more of a habit than anything.”

  “What do you do with all the old shoes?”

  “They used to pile up in my closet and storage, but honestly, I think the housekeeper started cleaning the bottoms of them so I’d quit buying new ones.”

  I nod and try to look like I understand, but I don’t.

  “You’re a shoe hoarder,” I say.

  The side of his mouth lifts in a smirk.

  “Yeah, I guess you could say that. Lourdes?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re pregnant,” he points at me like there is a bug on my shoulder or something.

  “I know,” I say with a nod.

  “With our baby.” He waves his finger between us, back and forth.

  I smile.

  “I want to kiss you,” he says.

  I look down at my feet and shuffle them back and forth.

  “I want you to kiss me,” I say.

  But neither of us makes a move to do anything. We just stand there in silence for what seems like forever, but in reality, it’s probably just a few seconds.

  “You should get to the pharmacy to pick up those vitamins and go get Toby,” he says, popping the tension bubble.

  “Yeah, you’re right. I’d better get going.”

  He closes the gap between us and cages me in between his arms against my car door. Nose to nose, I close my eyes and feel his breath on my mouth. Is this it? Is he going to kiss me?

  Every muscle in my body is coiled tight. My skin is covered with goosebumps, and I’m pretty sure I’ve stopped breathing again. He trails his finger down my shoulder to my elbow, where the rest of my arm disappears behind my back. He slides his hand between the car and me to the door handle, pulling it open. The door scoots me toward him. My eyes are still closed, and I’m definitely breathing now. In fact, I’m nearly panting.

  “In you go,” he says softly.

  Only then do I risk looking at him. I see a mixture of many things swirling in his lapis eyes: want, need, passion, and . . . restraint.

  With our mouths only millimeters apart, my parted lips tingle, but I know he won’t do it—not yet.

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  He pulls the door open wide, and I step around him and slide into the steamy hot seat.

  “Crank the air and roll down the windows. You’re going to suffocate in there.”

  I do as he says and blast the air. It’s warm at first, but it doesn’t take long to cool off in the car. When he’s satisfied with the temperature, he gestures for me to roll up the windows. When I do, he turns away from me and walks around his car to leave. I sit and watch him start it and adjust several settings on the radio, and then he picks up his phone and starts to text.

  A couple of seconds later, my phone chirps its text notification song, and I dig it out of my p
urse and tap the text bubble to bring up the message.

  A short text says, I don’t wanna mess things up. –Liam.

  Under that is a link to a video. I look up and find him watching me. He mouths the words, play it, so I press play and listen to Lady Antebellum sing Just a Kiss.

  Three verses in, I cover my mouth with my fingertips. Tears fill my eyes for the second time today when I hear the familiar lyrics. Our situation is so unique that I can’t believe how perfectly the lyrics correlate. She sings about taking our time and not rushing things or messing things up, and she sings about fighting the feelings until the time is right. When I look up to see if Liam is still watching me I find his car gone. He dropped an emotional text bomb on me and ran. Nice, Liam. Nice.

  Chapter 21

  Liam

  I couldn’t watch her any longer. When the first tear slid down her cheek, it prompted a few of my own to fill my eyes. I’m not an emotional man, and I’m not soft-hearted—far from it. But something about Lourdes transforms me into something better. She brings out parts of my personality that I never knew existed. I’ve never felt so possessive or protective of another person in my life. Lourdes makes me strive to be a better man, and she gives me hope for a better life.

  I’ve been floating in an ocean on my back, staring up at the sun for over six months, thinking that this is my destiny: the fame and the money minus the love and family. I’ve never been in love and my family was a joke, so it seemed like a pretty fair trade . . . until now. Now that I’ve had a taste of what love might be, I want it all. Lourdes is my long-awaited island paradise in an ocean that has held me captive long enough. She’s saving me, giving me a place to rest. She is my shelter, a place for me to call home, and she has no idea.

  I pull up to my house and cut the engine in the cool, dark garage. It’s been a perfect day, and now I have to ruin it. I need to call Amira and tell her we’re pregnant and find out how her father is doing. It’s been so peaceful here in the house since she left. I don’t dread coming home anymore. I instruct the car to call Amira and sit while it rings. She’s always been one to wait until the last possible ring before she picks up, like she’s so busy she hardly has time to speak to anyone.

  “Amira?”

  “Liam,” she says, out of breath. Probably working out again.

  “How is your father?”

  “This isn’t a good time, Liam. Can I call you back?”

  He must still be alive. She’s not freaking out or asking about the baby, and I don’t really give a shit about her father anyway. I was just making small talk.

  “No, Amira. I’m busy later. I called to tell you we’re having a baby. Lourdes is pregnant. That’s it. I’ll let you go.”

  She’s quiet on the other end of the line on the other side of the world. No more heavy breathing, no more anything, just quiet. Maybe she’s covered the phone or pressed mute.

  “Amira, I don’t have time for games. I’m hanging up now.” I hear shuffling and movement.

  “Wait, Liam, no, don’t hang up. She’s really pregnant? Like with your baby?”

  “Yes, Amira, with my baby. What’s going on with you?” I ask. She sounds almost frantic or panicked.

  “I . . . I just didn’t think it was going to happen so fast. I figured it would take a few tries.”

  “Well it didn’t, so if you need to hang up, just call me later.”

  “He’s not doing well, and nobody will tell me what’s going on with his will. He actually instructed his lawyer not to speak to me about it if he ever got sick or unresponsive. Can you believe that shit?”

  “I thought this wasn’t a good time to talk, Amira.”

  “Oh no, I’m good. I was just distracted. So when is she due?”

  “March fifteenth.”

  “Oh.”

  “Amira, you’re acting weirder than usual. What’s your deal?”

  “Nothing, Liam. Shit, I’m having a fucking baby. I just wanted to know when it’s coming. Is that all right with you?”

  “Yes, fine. When are you coming home?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t leave until I know what’s going to happen. Besides, everybody here thinks I’m some great daughter for coming all the way from the U.S. to be with him when he’s sick and shit. If I up and leave, I’ll look bad.”

  “Since when do you care if you look bad?”

  “Since now, Liam. Shut up. I’ll be home when I’m home.”

  “Fine, I was just checking. I don’t really care.”

  “You don’t care when your wife is coming home?”

  “You’re not going to be my wife for much longer, Amira, so no, I don’t care if you ever come home.”

  “Wow. A little touchy there, aren’t you?”

  She’s pressing my buttons in the way only she knows how. She likes to play this back and forth power trip game with me, and I’m so over it.

  “Goodbye, Amira,” I say, hanging up the phone. She’ll probably send me a slew of nasty texts now, but I’d rather delete those than listen to her talk for a second longer. I have no idea how I’ve put up with being married that woman for five minutes, let alone seven months—almost eight now.

  I get out of car and go inside. I need to run. It’s been nice having the gym to myself lately. I strip off my shirt and jeans, changing them out for a pair of black basketball shorts and a new pair of running shoes—not Adidas, but new just the same.

  Our gym is pretty elaborate as far as home gyms go. Amira’s a workout fiend, and she has the best of the best of all kinds of equipment. Our house is built into a hill, and half of the rooms on the west side, including the gym, face a sharp drop-off. Floor to ceiling windows make you feel as if you could walk off the side of a cliff into a forest of trees and rocks. Beyond the trees, the city sprawls out for miles. It’s one of those views people pay a fortune for, and I did. I’ve never had much time to enjoy them, though I don’t work out with Amira. She’s hypercritical. The few times I tried, she kept telling me, You’re not in the correct position. or You need to run another mile. Not to mention, her personal trainer is always here, and I can’t stand to listen to that guy and his shallow knowledge bank about smoothies and protein powder. Working out is literally his life. How does someone live such an unbalanced existence?

  We have a sound system in the house that could rock it off its foundation and into the valley below if anyone turned it up as far as it will go. Amira comes close, sometimes blasting it so hard the neighbors complain. I’ll bet they’re enjoying the hiatus as much as I am. Well, maybe not quite as much.

  I put on a playlist of my favorite house music and run. I run every day, usually outside, but I need to think about my next move, and I don’t have time to be mindful of other pedestrians and cars, so it’s the treadmill for me today.

  Lourdes is pregnant with my baby.

  For almost a mile, that’s all I think about. I turn up the speed and the incline. Sweat is dripping down the middle of my back, my feet are pounding to the beat of the music, and I’m having a baby. Lourdes is going to take classes online during her pregnancy. She needs to stay near her obstetrician here in LA, and it will keep her from skipping an entire year of school to have the baby.

  I need a divorce lawyer. I want everything ready to file as soon as possible. I hate all the unknowns right now. When is her dad going to get better? Is she still in his damn will? How long will he make Amira suffer after we have the baby before he gives our divorce his blessing? How long will Lourdes wait for me?

  That last question is the one that messes with my head the most. I’ve come to care for her deeply over the past two months. I can’t imagine my life without her. She has high aspirations in life, and I don’t want to hold her back waiting on something that could take a long time to happen. She’s smart as a whip, and she is going to be an incredible lawyer someday. I’ll do anything in my power to help her achieve that goal, including stepping aside if she needs me to, but God, I hope she won’t need me to.

&nb
sp; My muscles burn and my lungs feel like they’re going to explode when I glance down at the control panel and see I’ve run six miles. I feel better. Running is like meditation. It calms my nerves and gives me focus. I switch to a cool-down and dial Steve to see if he knows of a good divorce lawyer.

  “Hey man, what’s up?”

  “I need a lawyer. You know of any kick-ass divorce lawyers?”

  “Aw shit, you’re finally doing it? What about her pops? Isn’t he gonna make your life miserable if you give him back his little girl?” He chuckles. Steve hates Amira almost as much as I do.

  “We have a plan,” I say.

  “What kind of plan, dude? And who’s we? You and Amira, or that hot chick you’ve been hanging around with lately?”

  I almost go off the end of the treadmill, but I catch myself with the bars and lift up to place my feet on either side of the belt. He means Lourdes. People must be talking, and why wouldn’t they?

  “All three of us, actually,” I say, drying my face off with a towel with my free hand.

  “Man, you gotta give me more than that. Come over for dinner tonight, bring the hot chick, and fill me in.”

  He’s going to find out what’s going on eventually. I may as well get it out in the open. I’m going to need my friend’s support through all of this.

  “Yeah, ok. Be researching a good lawyer for me, though, and that ‘hot chick’ is Lourdes, and she has a son. Is it cool if we bring him with?”

  I can see him shaking his head as he chuckles again. “Man, you can’t do anything the normal way, can you? Sure, bring the kid. You know how we roll—the more the merrier and all that shit.”

  “Okay, so we’ll be there around seven if that works for you.”

  “Yep, be ready for a Carnivorous Celebration of Celebrity Separation!”

  Kevin likes to title even the most minor of events. “So in other words, we’re having a barbeque?”

  “Yeah, man, a meat party to celebrate you finally getting off the bitch train.”